A/N: Thanks so much to all who reviewed the first chapter! Responses seemed to be fairly positive, thanks! Major appreciation! Hopefully this next chapter is also up to snuff. The plot is beginning to thicken, everyone buckle your seatbelts!
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Chapter 2
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"I just don't understand why she won't talk to me," Harry basically whined. He was sitting on the floor, leaning his head against Ophelia's hospital cot. Hermione sat in the chair across from him.
"Look, Harry, I really don't know what to tell you. If she won't see you, she won't see you."
"C'mon, don't take that tone with me—"
"—what tone," Hermione interjected exasperatedly, but Harry ignored her.
"I only want to understand what happened. I still don't."
She didn't reply immediately, as Ophelia rolled over in her sleep, causing Hermione to lunge forward, holding her breath. After it became clear that she wasn't about to wake, Hermione relaxed back into her seat.
"Harry," she said slowly, "it's been almost a year. I think it's time you begin to accept that she's moving on, and you should be, too. I love you like my own brother, and I want to hate her for making you unhappy, but I love Ginny too. She needs to do what's best for herself."
He sighed, his head falling on to his knees. "I thought maybe after she had some time, she'd come to realize she missed me," he confessed, and Hermione sighed too.
"I'm no expert on romance, Harry. I barely manage to limp along. Why don't you talk to Ron, or even Luna? Maybe they would have some insight. I know Luna's been seeing a lot of Ginny lately."
Harry didn't reply, and she wondered if he'd fallen asleep. It was barely lunchtime, but the black-haired man had been looking tired and overworked of late. Hermione smiled softly. He'd still come at her call though, as always, to rub her arms and awkwardly pat her hair while she nervously sobbed.
"You'd have thought that being a healer would have eliminated the stress you feel when a friend or family gets ill," Hermione muttered to herself, watching Ophelia's chest rhythmically rise and fall. "It's always the same though."
"That helpless feeling in your stomach," Harry finished the thought for her, raising his head. "That churning, burning sensation, the panic that clouds your mind, searing behind your eyes and working its way up your esophagus."
Hermione moved to sit beside him on the floor, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Sometimes I forget I'm not alone, that you and Ron and Malfoy have been through it all too."
"Do you think about it a lot?" Harry asked. "The war, I mean?"
"I used to, more," Hermione replied. "Maybe it was more recent then, or maybe I just have more going on nowadays."
Harry raised his eyebrows. "A little more Mr. Malfoy around, eh?"
Hermione blushed. "It certainly takes up the mental space. And Ophelia was a distraction, to a certain extent. Although I would also worry about her, and that would make me reflect on the past and everything."
"Kids are amazing, aren't they?" Harry craned his neck around to look at Ophelia, and twirled a lock of her shimmering hair around his finger. Every slight blue vein was visible in her almost see-through eyelids. "She looks ill, though," he said, as Hermione felt the girl's forehead. "She's really pale."
"She's running a fever," Harry could hear the tightness in Hermione's voice. She checked her watch.
Harry sat down, patting the floor next to him. "Here, sit down. Nothing you can do right now, and he'll be here soon enough."
Hermione sat next to him, gracefully sinking into folded legs. "It'll all be fine."
"Do you know anything more about what happened yet?"
"Well, she got sick this morning," Hermione began, laying out the facts, for her benefit as much as Harry's curiosity. "She has daycare every weekday, and it runs 'till afternoon or mid-afternoon, depending. Malfoy picked her up yesterday. We alternate, and I usually take Tuesdays off and spend the day with Ophelia if it's a slow week in the ward. He brought her home last night, and we had dinner and then went for an ice cream. And then this morning she'd been poisoned." She ran a hand through her hair. "Malfoy and I are fine, obviously, so… it just, it reeks. It seems like Ophelia's been targeted, like it's something specific. And you know us, we're careful, and we're known in the wizarding world—it wouldn't be a small task, to get to her. It would take organization, and confidence, and skill."
Harry let out a long breath. "Hermione, I—"
"No, don't say you're sorry," she interrupted him. "It has nothing to do with you."
"I don't know…" Harry shrugged. "I've been so swamped with taking care of James and Lily. I feel like I haven't been there for you enough."
Hermione scooted closer to him, laying her head on his shoulder. She felt like they were in Hogwarts again, Harry comforting her after she'd had a bad test, or a fight with Ron, or anything stabilizing and normal. "Harry, don't say that. Obviously I understand. Your wife left you alone with a fulltime job and two kids, if anything, I feel like I should be doing more to help you."
"No, seriously. We're both busy. At any rate, Mrs. Weasley's been a godsend."
"So she didn't take sides in the divorce?"
Harry shrugged. "Well, I mean, it was awkward for a little while. But then Ginny took that foray to France and I think she realized how over my head I was. Plus, let's be honest, she wanted to see her grandkids."
Hermione laughed tiredly. "True, true. I mean, I guess she always liked you more than me, anyways."
"That's because I'm an orphan."
"Probably."
"So have you seen Ron lately?" Harry asked her, in an attempt to distract her from brooding. He reached over and smoothed out the crinkle in her brow. "You're going to get a wrinkle there if you keep doing that."
She brushed his hand away. "I'm a witch and a doctor, I think I can take care of a couple wrinkles. No, I haven't. I got his wedding invitation though. I can't believe it…"
"Believe what?"
"That it's already been a year since they met…and that Ron's finally getting married again."
She felt Harry stiffen under her head. There was an unspoken rule among their group of friends, that Ron's first marriage was rarely, if ever, discussed. Privately, Hermione believed it was probably a catalyst for many of the emotional problems that had lead to Ron's alcoholism and ultimate breakdown.
"Yeah," he grunted.
"I wonder where the wedding will be?"
"Dunno."
Hermione tried to smile. "I suppose that's not really on your list of top questions to ask Ron, is it?"
Harry ginned begrudgingly. "Nah, not really."
They quieted again. Hermione stood to sit by the edge of Ophelia's bed, stroking her hand through the little girl's curls, which were still obstinately refusing to darken from their piercing white-blonde glow. Hermione sighed softly, feeling the tears pressing against the back of her eyelids as panic and exhaustion warred within her.
Finally, she gave in to panic, laying her head next to Ophelia's and allowing the tears to mercilessly creep out.
At this moment Draco burst through the double doors into the wing, causing such a commotion that Hermione had already risen to her feet when he skidded in the door.
He took a minute to peruse the scene in front of him. Harry was still sitting, bemused, on the ground, and Ophelia lay, pale and inert on the starched hospital bed. Hermione was standing, a little bit away from him, her eyes huge and round with an edge of panic that one would normally associate with a caged animal.
Draco went to Hermione immediately, nodding briefly at Harry. She shied away from his touch, going to stand by Ophelia's bed. He walked up behind her, loosely slipping his arms around her waist. Hermione stiffened, then relaxed, leaning back against him.
Harry watched the way they moved together, feeling as though her were looking in on something intensely private. It was like an intricate dance between two highly practiced dancers; there was an inborn fluidity to their movements that spoke of a seamless comfort between them.
Draco pulled Hermione closer, letting her head loll back against his shoulder, as he kissed her cheek and hair.
"It'll be alright," he murmured in her ear, stroking her stomach with his hands. "She's strong and stubborn, she'll be just fine."
Harry slowly got up, trying not to let his knee crack, and softly padded out of the room. Through the pane on the door, he saw Hermione turn, sliding her arms around Draco's neck to rest her cheek against his. Draco swayed softly from side-to-side, never breaking contact with Hermione, content to hold her in his arms.
Harry looked away, heading to the tearoom for a quick coffee before returning to say goodbye. Observing the exchange between the two had brought up emotions he had never been comfortable dealing with. The way Hermione and Draco interacted was so easy, so natural, as if they'd never been apart, never hated each other, never spent long years resenting the others existence. He found it difficult, if not impossible, to remember the years of animosity without looking at them in a different light.
Hatred became children playing, name-calling a way of teasing and concealed attraction. He sometimes questioned whether Hermione and Draco had ever really hated one another at all.
Deep down, he knew that it had been real. Now, it might just look like children playing, and the animosity of teenagers. At the time, however, it had been deadly serious. There had been an impending war, and lines in the sand had never been more clearly drawn, sides more vigilantly taken. But watching the two interact now, an observer would never suspect.
"They have really fallen in love," he muttered to himself, pressing the elevator button for up. And then, before he could stop himself, before he could button his mouth shut, before he could permanently suppress the thought (because saying it would be an acknowledgement that he wasn't sure he could deal with right now, if ever) it slipped out.
"Did Ginny and I ever have that?"
And, had they?
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"Look, Daniel, I really have to go," Ginny was saying.
"But we just got here."
"It's legitimately an emergency," she protested, trying to free her hands from his vice-like grip. "I'm also not sure if I can do this anymore, but that's a discussion for another time and place." She stood up. "If you—would just—" she managed to wrench one of her hands free and grabbed her scarf and purse, "let—go—" She finally gained possession of the other hand, and grabbed her tea, tossing the rest of it into her mouth.
"Ginny, what is going on?"
She paused a moment to look at the bewildered brunette man whom she had been sitting across from a moment before. They were in a relatively unknown tearoom in Diagon Alley that had once been a favorite lunch spot of Ginny and Harry. Recently, she had begun to recycle it into her dating life.
"Alright," she said, pausing in doing up the buttons on her jacket. "Daniel, you know I just got out of something serious."
"Yeah, like a year ago!"
"Exactly, only a year ago. I'm just…" Ginny paused, and finished buttoning. "I'm really not looking for anything serious right now." She flashed him a sympathetic smile. "I can just feel that that's what you want. Sorry, I'm sure you'll find someone who wants it too."
Daniel stood up. "And you have to tell me this in the middle of a lunch date, while running out on me—why, exactly?"
"Well, honestly!" She huffed. "If you must know, it's because my niece is in the hospital, and she's quite deathly ill. So it's actually kind of a family emergency, if you would just bugger out and mind your own business, thanks."
He came over to her side of the table, grabbing her arm again. Ginny sighed inwardly. "I don't understand why we can't try and make things work," he said, in quite a different tone. "We want the same things."
"No, I really think we don't. I think we want quite different things, actually." Ginny fruitlessly tried to free her arm.
"We've only been seeing each other for a month. Surely things could go on for a bit longer before we jumped to conclusions."
"This isn't necessarily a 'jumped-to' conclusion, Daniel. I've been thinking about this—"
He cut her off as his lips crashed into hers, and his grip on her arm tightened, as he grabbed her other arm, pulling her closer.
"C'mon Gin," he muttered against her mouth. "Let's give it the old college try."
His hands found her hips, pulling her flush against him, and Ginny felt the familiar heat spiral through her stomach. The reason she'd kept seeing Daniel for so long was quite simple, and it didn't involve his personality…
"Daniel, really," she cried, placing her hands on his chest and forcefully pushing him away. "This is neither the time nor the place. I have to go see my niece."
He grumbled, then glared, and Ginny was fairly certain she saw him gesture rudely at her as she opened the door of the tea shop.
"Honestly," she muttered to herself. "The nerve of some men."
"Pardon?" Someone else was entering, looking at Ginny strangely. "What was that?"
Ginny flushed brightly, feeling even the tips of her ears heat up. The woman was much older than she, and exceptionally attractive. She had dark, olive-toned skin that made Ginny's pale, freckled arms look childish, and her long dark hair was swept into an elegant up-do. It left her angular face bare for contemplation, with an aristocratic long nose and penetrating hazel eyes. She was undoubtedly a pureblood, vaguely familiar looking, and she was also one of the most beautiful people Ginny had ever seen.
"Oh, um, nothing," Ginny stammered, feeling like she was sixteen again. "Just, um, talking to myself."
The woman smiled, a mixture between a kind and predatory grin. "You look familiar," she said, stepping outside the doorway next to Ginny to allow another couple to pass. "Don't tell me… Ginevra Weasley. Am I right?" She asked, with the haughty air of one who is rarely wrong.
"Um, yes," Ginny replied politely, fidgeting. She was going to be incredibly late for Hermione. Hopefully Draco was there already.
The woman interrupted her thoughts. "We met, long ago, when you were quite a little girl." She was staring at Ginny intensely, so that Ginny automatically patted her hair, wondering if something was wrong. "You are quite grown up now. How old are you?"
Ginny flushed. "A lady never reveals her age," she said primly, allowing a hint of her spunk to surface. The woman raised an eyebrow, and Ginny smiled. "But, I suppose it's not hardship to admit that I'm nearly twenty-nine."
Her companion nodded. "You barely look it, although I suppose the hair has matured to something of a rich auburn."
Ginny shifted her weight between her feet, unsure what to make of this stranger. She was clearly an old acquaintance of her parents, probably a pureblood she had met before the war had separated them from those circles entirely. Even if they had never been formally introduced, it was highly probably the woman knew who she was—after all, the Weasleys had a fairly recognizable visage.
Suddenly, the older woman whipped something out of her pocket. "I heard about the dissolution of your marriage," she said, almost sympathetically, yet still brusque. "That sort of thing is always difficult, especially when your husband is rather an important figure in the public's eye. It will get better."
"Thank you," Ginny replied, nodding calmly, letting herself absorb the words.
The woman handed over an invitation. "My son, whom I believe you know, has recently been very ill. It was due predominantly to the heroic efforts of your friend, a Ms. Granger, that he has come out none the worse for it. I would appreciate it greatly if you would accompany Ms. Granger and Mr. Malfoy to a welcoming party for him. Naturally, they will receive their own invitations, so don't feel any pressure to inform them of the specifics."
"N-naturally," Ginny stammered, at a complete loss for words, turning over the paper between her hands. It was a heavy parchment envelope, stamped with an elaborate gold-wax seal, and dripping with several ornate ribbons.
"Don't worry. I didn't stalk you down to invite you, it was merely a fortunate encounter at a local café. Nevertheless, it will please me to see you next weekend."
With that, she swept into the tearoom, leaving a bewildered Ginny in her wake. She watched the tip of the woman's fur coat disappear beyond the door, and wondered what exactly she'd gotten herself into.
Then, abruptly, she shook herself, stuffed the invitation into her pocket without further thought, and apparated to St. Mungos.
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Draco held Hermione in his arms, feeling the tension in her muscles evaporate the longer they stood together.
She leaned back in his arms, letting her hair swing down as she relaxed her shoulders and neck. He leaned forward, pressing hot, wet kisses to her neck and collarbones, until she stood upright again, threading her fingers through his hair and drawing him down for a long, hard kiss.
"Thank you for coming," she said against his lips when they were both catching their breath.
"Why, a thank you from Granger?" He drawled. "Wonders never cease."
She shoved his shoulder. "Don't count on it happening too often."
"Then I better make it worth my while," he growled, gathering her in his arms once more and kissing her until she begged him to stop.
"No, Malfoy," she gasped in between kisses and giggles. "We are in a hospital. The hospital, the hospital where I work—stop!" she cried, batting his hand out of her shirt. "Enough, our daughter is extremely ill."
"Our daughter?"
"Well, what would you prefer I call her? Mine? You're the acknowledged father."
He grinned. "No, I like that. I don't think you say it enough. She is ours."
They were silent for a moment, standing together, Hermione's head resting against his shoulder. She looked up. "I just wish I knew what happened to her. I have a really bad feeling about this."
He pulled back so he could look her in the eyes. "Well, first thing's first. Is she going to be okay?" Hermione prevaricated, and he gave her a little shake. "You're a healer. You know these things, Granger, and don't give me some bullshit about jinxing her survival or whatever. Is she going to be okay?"
Hermione let out a huge sigh. "Yes."
"Then what's the problem? Why are you still so worried?"
"Because, Draco," she whispered, and a tear slid down her cheek. "If. If she had had just a trace more of the poison—if she hadn't thrown up right when she did…if I hadn't recognized the symptoms almost immediately. If not…then…" She hiccupped. "Then she would not be okay."
Draco suppressed the desire to also let out a long breath. "But she is okay," he said firmly, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. "She is okay," he repeated, "and that's what matters now. We can figure this out, we can get to the bottom of this. I will literally hunt whoever is responsible for this, to the ends of the earth." Hermione shivered in his arms. She could hear the echo of who he was raised to be, the ruthless edge of the psychopath that his father had intended him to be. He was fierce, her Draco Malfoy, and he meant every word.
She pressed herself against him again. "I can't handle something like this again, I can't."
"Really?" He asked drily. "Because you seem to be enjoying it so very much."
She shoved him. "You don't look so happy yourself, there. Anything more and I might think you had been worried."
"Nope, the infallible Draco Malfoy does not feel the lesser emotions, such as worry, anxiety, and being ticklish."
Hermione managed a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh. "I have it on good authority that he feels at least one of those."
Draco somehow managed to look aloof. "I beg your pardon? I'll have you know—" He was cut off as Hermione launched herself at his sides, poking and tickling mercilessly until he fell to his knees in a heap, heaving with laughter.
"I surrender, I surrender," he cried, holding up his hands and falling back to lying on the hospital floor. "I give up, Granger, you've tamed the wild beast." With that he grabbed her hand, jerking her down with a small shriek, so that she was sitting on his stomach. "Oof, Granger, what have you been eating?" He teased, and she raised her free hand threateningly through her laughter.
"I can still tickle you some more," she warned.
He laughed, and before she quite knew it, flipped them so that he was lying on top of her, wrists pinned to the floor. Part of Hermione realized she was in her daughter's hospital room, and part of her simply didn't care. "Gotcha," he growled, and then Hermione laughed until she cried.
A while later, Draco picked them both up off the floor, sitting Hermione on the bed, brushing off her shirt and helping her smooth down her hair. She leaned her forehead against his chest as he stood over her, allowing him full access to her wealth of curls.
She hiccupped, his hands still entwined in her hair. "I need you, you know."
He raised an eyebrow, but could no longer muster a playful tone. "I relish these moments," he said instead. "Your moments of weakness," he clarified upon her quizzical look. "The times when I feel needed. You're such an independent, determined woman, that it's not often I get to play the stereotypical masculine role of the 'foundation' upon which you rest." He saw her smiling, and leaned back against the wall, smirking once more. "It's not so bad."
She got up off the bed, walking towards him in a very un-Hermione-like manner. "It has its perks," she drawled, in her best Draco imitation, and he threw his head back and laughed. "Are you quite finished?" She asked, raising an eyebrow, when he had caught his breath.
"Not even close." He grabbed both her hands and reeled her in, then lunging forward with one knee, caught Hermione in a deep back bend. "Are you quite finished?" He parroted, and she flicked heavily-lidded eyes up to his face.
"Not even close," she murmured.
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